


Bandaids

by Dach



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexhamder - Freeform, Gen, Hospital Family AU, Hospitals, Humor, John insists that it needs stitching, Lafayette is a proud baguette, Meme Wars: Hamilton versus Peggy, Peggy is a badass in sparkly yellow eyeliner, Washington gets a cut, Washington gets stitches- HAMILTON HOW THE FUCK DO YOU KNOW EVERYONE!????, hospital au, nurse!Peggy, they go to the hospital
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-16 03:42:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10562982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dach/pseuds/Dach
Summary: Alexander would always be a fighter, both in the figurative context and in the literal one. So what better career for him than politics? Politics were dirty. They were weaving one’s way through the social ladder until the twisting of limbs and ties of knowledge kept one secure when it finally upended. It was filthy and mudslinging and an absolutefight.Of course, he didn't always escape reciprocation. It was inevitable that he would end up at the hospital at one point of time. Or two. Or five. Or a good eighty-four. And when one frequents a hospital to such an extent, they tend to befriend the workers.





	1. Prologue

Alexander Hamilton would always be a fighter, both in the figurative context and in the literal one. He had gotten into more street-spats by the time he twelve than most would partake in or witness in their entire life. When he was a teen, a kid who cared only for keeping his immigration papers and the locket that his mother had given him intact, he was reckless.

He would hear a loudmouth insulting family heritage- _WHAM_! The loudmouth would be down for the count.

He would see some dealer harassing one of his customers- _SMACK_! The dealer would regain consciousness hours later.

He would watch some persnickety businessman kick the homeless lady who frequented the curb- _BLAM!_ The businessman would wonder about his plummeting ratings until he found out that somebody had managed to post an… _unflattering_ essay on his less publicized deeds. It was a wonder that Hamilton didn’t have a criminal record yet.

Of course, Hamilton didn’t always escape reciprocation.

The loudmouth would spread nasty lies, and Hamilton would be forced to duck his head to avoid the eyes of curious loiterers.

The dealer would pit his buyers against Hamilton, and the immigrant would end up with greasy, blood-matted hair and more enemies and injuries that he had ever dreamed of.

The businessman… actually, Hamilton hadn’t suffered any consequences that time. When nothing bad had come of that particular experience, well, Hamilton grew curious. He stopped hanging out around the corner store and instead nicked old newspapers from the recycling bins of those who could actually afford them, reading the pages ‘till the ink ran and cross-referencing the information with what he learned from library computers.

Eventually, he found out why he had never reaped what he had sown: words - the double-edged blade of politics.

The businessman in question was one who had been respected well enough, up until Hamilton’s intervention. He had ran in important political circles. And the reason for that was his political correctness. His “eloquence”. One could call him clever with words, but certainly not concise. He disguised the detriments of his plans with sly wording, until an AP highschool english class would probably have needed to analyze his slogan as a group to reveal his intent. The man didn’t lie, he spoke fabricated truths. And the way that he spoke caged him.

If the businessman had wanted to incriminate someone or change something, he would have needed to clearly state the evidence. He would have needed to lay down the cold hard facts and call for a court case. Politics and court were two separate things.

In politics, one could play the game of running in circles and telling others that they were stalking in squares, while courts made it impossible for someone to dance around the irrefutable. The only case that the businessman could have built would have been based on political libel, and wouldn’t have stood up to the tougher, technological standards of court.

Maybe that’s why not all lawyers liked their jobs, Hamilton mused. Lawyering was an exact science with no room for exploration or major risk to anyone but the client. It was _boring_.

Politics, on the other hand… most intriguing. Weaving one’s way through the social ladder until the twisting of limbs and ties of knowledge kept one secure when it finally upended. It was filthy and dirty and mudslinging and an absolute _fight_.

Well, Alexander Hamilton had always been a fighter.

A lawyer used to be Hamilton’s dream job: a position with a steady, prosperous income.

Now, Hamilton wanted to be a politician with every particle of his entity.

But being a homeless immigrant teen in New York made that a bit difficult.

Hamilton hadn’t stopped before, when the taunting, when the injuries, when the pain became too much, so he wasn’t going to stop now. He had a clear goal in sight and, as of the acquisition of a notebook, a pen, and an hour of inspirational YouTube videos on one of the library computers, he had a plan.

 

  * ****Earn money (stop buying so much fancy coffee)****


  * **Frequent different newspaper stands (don’t get caught nabbing the papers)**


  * **Avoid fights (unless someone is being a moron)**


  * **Get a rep (different from the current one)**


  * **Offer services as an office aide to someone important free of charge until they come to a decision and relinquish a contract**



 

The plan wasn’t complicated. It was quite simple, actually. And yet, a fourteen-year-old Hamilton reflected as he fended off one of the dealer’s junkies, simple things have the tenancy to be quite complex. Ah, well. Hindsight was a bitch viewed with twenty-twenty vision.


	2. Meme Wars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamilton is introduced to the wonderful building known as the city hospital and the meme wars make their debut.

Hamilton groaned as he walked into the hospital, double-checking that he had his envelope of money and wincing as each step jarred his ankle. The instant he neared the counter he admitted, disgruntled, “I need help.”

The man sitting there raised his eyebrow.

“Look! I have money, I just need some kind of brace for my ankle, okay?!”

The man sighed and handed him a clipboard. Hamilton stared at the sheets of paper as if they were a foreign material from Mars. “‘Billing address’?” he inquired incredulously.

The man raised an eyebrow. Hamilton groaned and threw the clipboard onto the counter, jamming the envelope of money back into his pocket. "I'm sure bandaids will suffice," he snarked, turning to leave.

"Dude!"

Hamilton turned to see a girl standing in the doorway. She wore hospital scrubs, but had a black hoodie tied around her waist. Her curly brown hair was secured in a ponytail that revealed her undercut, and she wore bright yellow eyeliner. Her name tag read ‘Margarita’, but she had crossed it out and scrawled ‘Peggy’ above it in sharpie

"I like your shirt!"

Hamilton glanced down bemusedly at his Clipping tee, then looked up to shoot her a grin. "Thanks."

“You want some help with that?” the nurse motioned towards the clearly blood-soaked leg of his jeans. Hamilton frowned.

“Eh, no. I can handle it.”

“I’m on break,” the nurse offered. “And I’m bored.”

Hamilton deliberated for a few moments, then finally nodded.

 

* * *

 

 

“So who is this?”

“Angelica and Eliza, my sisters.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Yes, I’m back.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Shuddup, Knox; I’m fully aware that I get ‘hurt too much’.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Hamilton, give me back the damn stethoscope.”

“I refuse.”

 

* * *

 

“Wait, you got a job?”

“C’mon, Peggy. You don’t need to act so surprised.”

 

* * *

 

“Ex- _cuse_ me, dabbing is horrendous.”

“FIGHT ME.”

 

* * *

 

   

    The harsh lights of the emergency room shone brightly, exposing everything that was to be seen and casting Hamilton’s cut forehead into sharp relief. The woman with her finger jammed into a jar who was sitting across from the immigrant looked at him oddly. Hamilton hadn’t filled out the form that every patron was supposedly given.

    A murmur sounded behind the door before a nurse in eyeliner sharper than the glass that Hamilton had been slashed with opened it, ushering out a disgruntled thirty-something-year-old in a red cast and a red waistcoat. The guy looked like he had stepped out of the pages of Hamilton’s old history textbook. With a sniff, the man stalked towards the exit, the only noise being made by his shoes on the thin gray carpet and his- _holy fuck, was that a pimp cane???_

    Hamilton couldn’t help but stare and the nurse chuckled the instant that she noticed. The woman sitting across from Hamilton perked up upon realization that she might finally be taken to receive care. “I’m on break, now,” the nurse informed her. The woman slumped. “My sister should be out any minute, though.”

    With that, the nurse walked over to Hamilton and inspected his cut forehead with a low whistle. “ _How_?!”

    “Glass.”

    “But _HOW_!?”

    “It wasn’t my fault!” Hamilton insisted, holding up his hands and pouting a little. The nurse grumbled.

    “Like hell it wasn’t. C’mon.”

    With an unintelligible whine, Hamilton followed the nurse through the door, walking the familiar path to the break room and collapsing onto an armchair with a dramatic sigh.  
    “I’m going to live here, now,” Hamilton declared, kicking his feet up to rest on the overstuffed footrest.

    “Cool!” the nurse exclaimed, with false excitement. “I’ll have another friend!”

    “Another?”

    The nurse pointed to an empty bottle of Clorox bleach. Hamilton groaned.

    “ _Really_ , Peggy?! That meme’s _ancient_.”

    “Yep,” drawled the youngest Schuyler sister, now rummaging through a first aid kit. “Clorox is my best bud.”

    “I’ll tell Angelica you said that. She’ll try to get you to make more friends, again.”

    A mock gasp from Peggy. “You _wouldn’t!_ ”

    “You can bet on it, Margarine.”

    “Margarine?” Peggy snapped on a pair of gloves and unwrapped a disinfectant wipe. “C’mon that wasn’t even trying.”

    “You’re right, Peg-Leg.”

    “Ham-Man.”

    “Cocktail-Child.”

    “Alexhamder.”

    “Party-Peg.”

    “Alexander Handleton.”

    “What?”

    “What?”

    “What?”

    Instead of replying, Peggy opted for swiping a disinfectant wipe across Hamilton’s forehead. The immigrant hissed and jerked away.

    “Ham.” Peggy frowned.

    Alexander grumbled and leaned back forwards, wincing and verbally thanking every deity that he knew of when Peggy neared him with glue. He let her seal the cut without complaint, and when she finally snapped off her gloves and dropped them into the bin, he sank against the chair in relief.

    “I think that you trapped some of the disinfectant underneath the glue,” Alexander said, absentmindedly. “My forehead still kinda hurts.”

    “That’s probably because you went and got into a fight, again,” said a voice from the doorway. Both of the room’s occupants glanced over to see Angelica.

    “No, I really think that she did,” Alexander insisted. “What if it’s trapped underneath there forever?”

    “It would be rendered impotent after half a minute,” Angelica stated. Alexander ignored her.

    “What if my skin heals over it? What if it gets in my bloodstream and stays there? What if I slowly grow allergic to it over the months?”

    “You can’t be allergic to that.” Angelica rolled her eyes. Hamilton ignored her again.

    “What if I collapse one day, not having realized the havoc it was wreaking? What if I _die_?” He ended his speech with a dramatically somber whisper. Peggy was mocking a look of absolute terror. Finally, Hamilton dropped his wide-eyed act and got up, walking over to the fridge.

    “Whaddya got?” he asked, even as he surveyed the various foods.

    “Don’t eat my cinnamon roll,” Angelica said, flipping open her laptop and sitting down to compose an email. Hesitantly, Alexander extended a hand towards the pastry. “Don’t.” Hamilton withdrew his hand.

    “Peggy?”

    “I only brought, like, three sandwiches.”

    “ _Please_!? I left my lunch at the office.”

    “Did you really?”

    “No. I forgot to make myself one.”

    Peggy groaned and got up from her plastic chair to walk over, extracting a sandwich from her grocery bag and tossing it at Hamilton with a: “Bone app the teeth!”

    Angelica looked up from her laptop, incredulous. “What?!”

    “The bon appetit meme,” Peggy said, as if that explained everything.

    “What?!” the oldest Schuyler sister asked again.

    “You misspell it, or say something that sounds similar in pronunciation” Hamilton explained.

    “That’s weird.”

    “It’s a wholesome meme,” Peggy stated. “Now, Hamilton: blue phonical tweet.”

    “Blond amputee.”

    “Bone apple tea.”

    “Blind refugees.”

    “Bamboozle the chief-”

    “Stop!” Angelica finally cut in, her hands covering her ears. Alexander and Peggy both snickered. Before the oldest Schuyler sister could go off on a rant, Knox poked his head into the doorway. He wore his blue scrubs and his normally wavy blond hair was held back a tight ponytail.

    “Angelica, Peggy; Eliza wants you two to help her out with something. Hey, Alex.” Alexander waved.

    “‘Sup, Henry. I’ll see myself out, then.”

    Knox nodded and hurried off. Angelica sighed and closed her laptop, slipping it back into her pink backpack. “Bye, Hammie!” Peggy called as Hamilton exited the room.

He waited until he was at the door and Peggy was halfway down the hallway in the opposite direction to call: “Bye, Pirate-Margarita!

    He rushed out the door and faintly, from behind him, he could hear Peggy shouting: “YOU BITCH!”


	3. Oops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ride to the hospital isn't amicable and Washington hates swearing.

“Hamilton, let go of the damn mug.”

“How about _no_ , Jefferson!?” Alexander hissed through clenched teeth, struggling to affirm his grip on the coffee mug.

“Hamilton!” Madison said warningly, from the fridge.

“Jefferson!” John mimicked, from the employee table. Burr glanced back and forth between the two with a look of unsure, second-hand embarrassment.

“For God’s sake! Washington asked me to get it!” insisted Hamilton.

“I was closer!”

Mulligan and Lafayette looked on with passive interest.

“Gentlemen!” Washington boomed, having just walked into the office kitchen. They grimaced and turned.

“Hello, sir!” Hamilton said, as cheerfully as he could manage while trying to wrest the ceramic from Jefferson’s grasp. His opponent echoed the sentiment.

Washington groaned and said, “Just give me the mug!”

Both of the workers lurched towards their boss on unsteady feet, muttering and hissing at each other while trying yet to pull the mug out of the other’s hands. With a terrific crack, the handle broke from the mug, which shattered into at least five pieces and went hurtling towards Washington. The largest- and unfortunately sharpest- piece hit Washington’s cheek, despite the arm that had been hastily thrown up in attempt to block it. Not long after it fell to the ground with a clink unnaturally loud, a startlingly red line of blood appeared on Washington’s cheek. The man looked shocked. Hamilton swore softly and Jefferson rushed to get a paper towel.

Washington wordlessly accepted the towel and dabbed futily at the cut. John leaned forwards to examine it from afar and whistled lowly. “That’s a deep one. You’re gonna need stitches.” Madison presented the injured CEO with a tissue that he had produced from one of his numerous, constantly present packets. Washington nodded his thanks.

“I’ll be back in an hour,” said Washington, at long last. Jefferson practically leapt to his boss’s assistance.

“Sir! You can’t drive like that! Please, let me!”

“Sir,” Hamilton cut in, shooting a glare towards Jefferson. “You can’t expect him to sufficiently aid you!?”

Washington shot the two of them an exasperated glance. Madison cleared his throat and stepped forwards.

“I could act as mediator?” Madison proposed.

“You wouldn’t work as a mediator,” John rebutted. “ _I_ will.”

“It’s unnecessary-” Washington began, before being cut off by Lafayette.

“ _I_ am friends with both,” the frenchman declared, “I can go with you.”

“I’ll go too,” Mulligan said, with a grin. “Moral support, y’know?”

Burr murmured his quiet confirmation that he too would be in company.

“It really is quite unnecessary,” Washington insisted.

“Let’s go!” Hamilton declared, ignoring his boss and grabbing Washington's car keys to toss them to Lafayette. The frenchman caught the jingling metal with a loud swear. Washington shot him a disapproving glance and Lafayette smiled sheepishly. Hamilton didn't give him time to apologize though, grabbing the frenchman's forearm and pulling him out of the room. Mulligan shouted something at them good-naturedly and rushed after the two with John in stead. Jefferson and Mulligan followed, walking with a much more subdued and distinctly regal stride.

Eventually, when all had piled into Washington's silver Subaru, Lafayette slid the keys into the ignition. The car rumbled to a start and they left the parking lot. All of the occupants in the very back row of seats complained as they went over a speed bump. Though Washington and Mulligan had normal seats, Jefferson, Laurens, Hamilton, and Madison were all crammed into the very back. Jefferson sat in the middle, complaining about how John's elbow was digging into his side, Madison vouching that Laurens was pushing them and trying to take more room. Hamilton, in the meanwhile, had taken up residence on the top of the backrest between Madison and Jefferson. He sat awkwardly, his back stooped.

Though he insisted otherwise, the main reason that Hamilton had chosen such a ridiculous position was so that he would have an excuse to occasionally knee Jefferson and/or Madison in the head. Both Madison and Jefferson were currently pausing in their own complaints to shoot Hamilton baleful glares. Laurens diverted Jefferson's attention by elbowing him in the side again.

"Why does Burr get the passenger seat?" Hamilton complained, shooting Lafayette a glare via the mirror over the dash and ignoring the scuffle that was going on to his left.

Lafayette didn't take his eyes off the road, answering: "Because he won't lord it over the rest of you."

"He's lording it over me!" Hamilton insisted.

"How so?"

"He's sitting there and I'm not."

"Jesus _Christ_ , Hamilton!" Jefferson complained, his voice slightly muffled by Hamilton's knee. "Quit whining!"

"Jefferson," Washington cut in, disgruntled and seeming at the end of his patience. "Hamilton does need to be told to cut it out. However, whenever you open your mouth to do so, all I can hear is 'Hi Pot, the name's Kettle.' Please stop."

The occupants of the car, sans Jefferson, Madison, and Burr, went crazy and it was rather remarkable that the car didn't swerve too much.

"Ha!" Hamilton laughed, once he had calmed down enough to articulate a full sentence. "You want some ice to help with that burn, Jefferson?!"

"He literally just acknowledged that my complaint was valid!" Jefferson said, incredulously. Hamilton, his grin still insanely wide, shrugged uncaringly.

"So?"

Jefferson groaned and went back to trying to disengage Laurens's elbow from his side while simultaneously attempting to shove his own elbow into John. "Hey!" Laurens finally protested. Hamilton rapped his knuckles across Jefferson's head.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Hamilton!" Jefferson protested, pulling away from Laurens.

"Language!" Washington warned.

"Oops." Hamilton grinned unrepentantly, ignoring his boss. Jefferson shot Hamilton a glare in reply. Lafayette appeared as if he was trying to hide a grin. Unfortunately, Jefferson caught it.

"Lafayette!"

"Sorry, mon ami!"

"I am surrounded by children," Washington grumbled.  Jefferson, of course, had his nickel's worth to add.

"As I am, as well."

"So correct, much grammar," Hamilton snorted.

"Shuddup."

"Fuck off."

"Hamilton!" George practically yelled. "Language!"

"Oops."

George groaned. "Un-fucking-believable."

All of the occupants of the car stared at Washington. Lafayette nearly swerved again. Washington glanced up at the mirror over the dash, fixing a majority of the stunned workers with a glare. "Oops," Washington deadpanned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thing with Wahington swearing was actually inspired by the Battle of Monmouth. In real life, George Washington despised swearing. He never partook in it and would punish his soldiers for doing so. However, at the Battle of Monmouth, he cussed out General Lee. How would one describe it? Well, according to Lafayette, "Charming! Delightful! Never have I witnessed such swearing before or since."
> 
> My tumblr is [erudammit](http://erudammit.tumblr.com)


End file.
